Ten's Graffiti
by Skillet'66
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Dallas Winston esaped from the cooler after being arrested at fourteen. Black Cat-the leader of an unpopular gang in New York-gets mixed up with Dally. Soon, they're fighting for freedom and life after one project that goes too far.


_**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**"The Outsiders".**

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_Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dreamed before.  
-Edgar Allan Poe_

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I looked at my dirty blonde hair in through the mirroring puddle. It used to be as white as snow until I got out of prison. That's when I moved to New York. I haven't been here long, but the wild side has already taken over me, turned me into just another hoodlum on the wrong side of the tracks, made me into an animal I'm not.

I'm only fifteen, but I'm small and slender for my age. Haven't got no muscle or bones or nothing. Just my pitiful little face.

I hated it.

I saw the brick laying right there, so I kicked it as hard as could. I wimpered in agony, pulling my foot away slowly as the pain spread through my foot. That was a prettty stupid thing to do, I thought.

My dad wouldn't seem to think so, though. He'd say that it was a disaster, that _I_ was a disaster, and that I didn't deserve anything. Maybe that's why I went off on him four months ago. I'd been arrested before when I was only ten, but I was just put in a holding cell until my dad got me. This time wasn't easy, though. I was caught driving without a liscence-drunk driving, at that. When I was let out early, I headed straight to New York.

New York didn't treat my well. Hell, it didn't treat no one well. Three days and all I've had was a hot dog I stole from someone and an ice cream some kid gave me. Sucker. Though I admit, it was warm and dripping all over my face by the time I got to the apartment alleyway I'd stayed at the previous night, the same place where I ran from yesterday.

I sighed and leaned back against the wall, covering my head with my hands. Smokey fog filled the air, and for a split second, I imagined someone leaning over a warm fire, but I soon realized that it was just the seemingly-natural smoke that came from factories and buildings and bars all across the big city.

The rain washed the smell away soon. It washed the dirt from my hair and face. I held out my hands and let it rinse that, too. I found a tipped-over bucket with a hole near the top of it. Good enough, I thought. I held it out in the rain and let it fill up as much as it could. Meanwhile, I ran around the sidewalk, holding my hands gratefully to the sky as the blessed rain came pouring down, down, down.

It wasn't a storm, and it wasn't a drizzle. It was the normal rain that washed away the smoke and people into new places. The smoke went somewhere on the other side of the city, hopefully. The people escaped into their houses, wherever it may be. Maybe it was a mansion, a hotel, an apartment, or somewhere else. Maybe it was a dumpster, a cardboard box, a wall that you desperately press up against, or a huddle of people that keep you safe.

I think that's what I wanted most, and the thought made me slide back into the spot beside the filling bucket, sullen and sad. More than anything, I wanted someone to stick by me, to be my friend, my guide, in this hell of a world. So maybe I could become the leader of a gang, or just the leader of someone else who'll look up to me. Maybe I'd get it someday, but for now, I dipped my hand in the rainwater and took a sip. Then I fell asleep.

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When I woke up again, it was early in the morning. I yawned and stretched my stiff neck, looking through squinted eyes at the dim sunlight. Scrambling on my feet, I walked cockily through the street, my chin up and my hands searching for a cancer stick to light. I didn't have any. Luckily, though, I was able to get a pack off of someone. They never even saw me.

I smiled and fumbled with the top of the pack. I opened it, and inside was a message, more than likely not meant for me. I opened it anyways.

_I need more supplies. You know the usual.  
-Black Cat_

I looked around for the man I stole the pack from. Short hair, brown, red jacket. I found him eventually through the swarm of crowded people, all moving with no mercy against the other waves. I caught up to him and strode behind. He walked a pretty long ways before he got to his destination: _Tom's_. Or at least that's what the sign said.

He went in, and I stayed outside, leaning my back against the window and propping one foot up. The dirty, peeling shoe covered in muck scraped against the window. The manager, or what I thought the person as, glared at me with evil eyes. I smiled back, putting my foot down.

The man walked up to the manager of the bar, and started talking. I watched him as he relaxingly searched for the pack, and, not finding anything, looked around the bar. I couldn't help smiling to myself. The man grabbed a napkin and hastily wrote something down. The manager looked down, ever so slightly, and winked back at the man. They talked a little while longer, and the man left.

Curious, I followed him as he headed back to the spot where he came from.

As soon as we hit the alleys, the man was climbing silently through secret paths and doors. I followed, stiff and scared. No, not scared. Apprehensive. On edge. I couldn't let him see me. When he finally reached his destination, I almost let out a breath of relief, but I kept it inside me, forced it still.

I watched from behind a stack of crates how the man went to someone else and told him something. The other man nodded, and called someone over. I watched as the two boys nodded and made their way over towards me, and started taking the crates, one by one, and stacking them in their frail, thin arms. One eventually found me.

"You better run," He whispered, still moving calmly.

I shook my head. "I'll be fine," I assured.

The other boy made his way toward me, moving a crate near my feet. "I don't think so." Suddenly, he backed away and pointed at me. He and the other boy dropped their crates and ran to the black-haired, muscled man that ordered them to pick the crates up.

The man walked stelthaly to me, knocking over all the crates in front of me. I stood up, smiling. The man grinned back. "What's you're name, kid?"

"Dallas."

"Grab some crates, follow them." He demanded. Just like that, he walked away and started heading inside the crumbled building.

"What?" I asked. "Is that what you want me to do? No way!"

The man cracked his knuckles, his green eyes glowing my way. "Oh yeah? Then go with my man here when they get back." He slapped his hand on the man that I stole the pack from. "He'll show you somethin' else."

Sometimes I wondered what would happen if I protested.

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**_Thanks for reading! Please tell me what you think._**


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